by Sue Grafton
“Anyway, Big Bobby got mad because she was spending so much time in rehearsals and I don’t know what. It was just one of those things. Big fight and he broke up with her. I’d see her in the hall sobbing her heart out with a cluster of girls around her patting her and being sweet. Suddenly Ned’s in the thick of it with his arm around her shoulder, making sure she’s okay. I remember thinking, ‘Where did he come from?’ Nothing wrong with him, except he was a dud and she was a star. It was just so wrong.”
“You had cliques?”
“Oh sure. Every high school has those. Certain types get all bonded and form these tight-knit groups; kids with the same social status or good looks or leadership abilities. Like as not, they went to junior high school together or all belonged to the same church youth group.”
“Where were you in all this?”
“On the sidelines. Way off. I wasn’t even in the running, and I knew that. Didn’t bother me. In fact, I enjoyed it. I felt like a spy, marveling at what went on. The thing about cliques is there aren’t any hard-and-fast rules about who belongs. You’re supposed to know your place. Somebody crosses the line, nobody’s going to say a word. At least not in our high school. Ned Lowe was nothing, and why Shirley Ann took up with him is anybody’s guess.”
“Maybe he was a relief after Big Bobby dumped her.”
“No question. That must have been the shock of her life. Nothing bad ever happened to her. Ned was smart enough to take advantage. He weaseled his way in and hung on for dear life.”
“Did that make him acceptable?”
“No. Here’s the thing, though: everybody liked her, and if she was dating him, who was going to object? All the guys wondered how the hell he rated, but there was no getting around it. For a while, at any rate.”
“Then what?”
“It was like everybody switched places. Big Bobby and Shirley Ann got back together and Ned couldn’t accept the fact he was out on his butt. He followed her around like a lovesick puppy dog, all sorry-eyed and pitiful. Long face like this.”
She paused to make a long face that was irritating even as an imitation.
She laughed at herself and went on. “She explained and explained she and Big Bobby were back together again, but he didn’t want to hear it. You know what her problem was? She tried to be nice, and her mother only made it worse. Norma encouraged her to ditch him, but she insisted she do it without hurting his feelings. He wasn’t the kind of guy you could reject at all, let alone with gentleness and tact. There was no getting rid of him. The more she pushed him away, the tighter his grip.”
“How did the situation get resolved?”
“It didn’t. That’s just it. Things got so bad, her mother pulled her out of school and sent her back east to live with her aunt. She finished high school back there.”
“I assume he recovered from his broken heart,” I said.
“You’d think so, wouldn’t you? High school isn’t the end of the world. Or maybe it is for some. The irony is when Shirley Ann came back to take care of her mom, Ned was on her like a shot—worse than in high school, and that was bad enough.”
“What happened to Norma?”
“Colon cancer they didn’t catch in time. Shirley Ann was here all that March and then stayed on to settle her mom’s estate. By then, her father was going downhill, and she ended up putting him in a home.”
“Sounds like a bad year all around.”
“I’ll say, and Ned didn’t help. In his mind, Shirley Ann was meant for him. His one true love. So there she was, right back in the same place. Trying to get rid of him, but too polite to tell him the truth.”
“Which was what, the guy’s a creep?”
“Exactly. There’s no way she’d ever take up with him again. She was embarrassed she’d ever dated him in the first place.”
“So this was before or after Lenore died?”
“Before, but just barely. Norma passed in late March, and Lenore, well, you know, she died sometime that spring.”
“Good Friday, March 31,” I supplied.
“Was it? I was thinking it was later, but you might be right. Anyway, Shirley Ann went back home and had the good sense to stay put.”
“How do you know all this stuff?”
“I’m friends with one of her best friends from back then, a girl named Jessica. I hardly spoke to Shirley Ann in high school. I was too intimidated. The summer she came back, I ran into Jess at church, and now it’s like the three of us are best friends.”
“Interesting sequence of events. Run it by me again.”
“What, about her mom? Norma got sick. Shirley Ann flew out to take care of her. This was five or six years after we graduated. Ned found out she was back and he’s falling all over himself, trying to fan the flames. You’d have thought not a day had passed. All moony and mopey. Every time she turned around, there he was. And he was serious about getting into her underpants. He gave her one red rose a day. I mean, for crying out loud! How corny is that? Sentimental greeting cards with all this glitter on the front. He called every day, sometimes two and three times, to see how she was doing. He just about drove her insane.”
“You think Lenore was aware of it?”
She gave a half shrug. “He made no big secret of it. Lenore probably hoped she could palm him off on Shirley Ann and good riddance.”
“How’d she dispatch him the second time around?”
“Well, that was the problem, wasn’t it? She couldn’t reject him outright without setting him off. He’d have turned into a python and squeezed the life out of her. She told him a relationship was out of the question. Never happen in a million years. She was happily married and so was he.”
“Was he happily married?”
“No, but it wasn’t her lookout. She was skirting the truth, but what else could she say?”
“I got the impression Lenore was teetering on the brink by then.”
“If she was, Ned drove her to it. I know Shirley Ann felt bad when she heard, you know, what Lenore did. Like if she’d been nicer to him, he wouldn’t have been so mean to his wife.”
“When you found out Lenore killed herself, did you question the story?”
“I didn’t know her well enough to form a strong opinion. I can see where it was the answer to Ned’s prayers. He was suddenly a free man, and wasn’t that convenient? Didn’t cut any ice with Shirley Ann. He’d always be a creep as far as she was concerned.”
“She’s still living back east?”
“She is.”
“Do you have a phone number for her?”
“I don’t, but Jessica does. If you’re interested in talking to her, I’d be happy to call first and tell her what this is about. That way you wouldn’t have to go through some long-drawn-out explanation.”
“I would love that. I’m hoping it won’t be necessary, but I’d like the option,” I said.
I went on to quiz her on a minor point or two, but essentially she’d given me the gist. I took down her phone number in case I had questions later and then gave her one of my business cards. “If Shirley Ann would prefer to have me call her, just let me know.”
“Sure thing.”
“Meanwhile, if you don’t mind my saying so, your life turned out great.”
She looked around with satisfaction. “It did, didn’t it? Trick is to figure out what you want and set your mind to it.”
“How’d you go about it?”
“You might not believe this, but I’m a maverick at heart. Born and raised Catholic, but when I finally decided to get married, I found me a nice Jewish boy. Everybody thought I’d turned hippie because I kept my maiden name instead of taking his. Both our mothers had conniption fits, but so what? The two of us are so stubborn, neither one of us will convert.”
“Where’d you meet him?”
“Ten-year high
school reunion. I’d known him since grade school. You have no idea how cute he is. I can’t believe I didn’t see it at the time.”
“A classmate. That’s perfect.”
“You bet. Little Bobby Fried. He was always the better of the two.”
Marsha Heddon followed me out the front door and stood on the porch fanning herself while I returned to my car. I fired up the engine and drove off, keeping an eye on her in the rearview mirror until I turned the corner and lost sight of her. Two blocks farther on, I pulled over to the curb and shut the engine down. It was time to take stock.
I’d been following much the same path Pete had taken, though he’d been operating on another plan: running a background check on Ned Lowe, or such was the claim. I assumed he was tracking Ned’s family of origin in hopes of confirming or debunking rumors of his pathology. The only suggestion I’d heard on that score came from Taryn Sizemore, whose opinion was colored by her history with him. I was willing to believe he was strange, but I had no proof he’d broken into Ruthie’s house or my office. In the meantime, it was my job to place Lenore’s Bible and her rosary in her daughter’s hands.
I left Burning Oaks at 4:00. I made good time. The back roads were more appealing as the March light waned. I passed the farm stand where I’d purchased asparagus, but neither the old fellow nor his daughter was there. I didn’t look directly at the parched fields and I avoided the sight of the riverbed, which was dry as a bone. I was still rejoicing at my good fortune at having wrapped up the day’s work without having to spend another night away from home. If Clara Doyle remembered to pass my phone number along to Stanley Munce, it would be well worth the time and energy.
27
Once in my neighborhood, I found a parking space and grabbed my overnight case, the asparagus, and my shoulder bag. I locked my car and headed for the studio. I felt great about being home until I rounded the corner of the studio. Henry’s backyard had been stripped. The last of the dead grass was gone and, while the fruit trees remained, the shrubs had been pulled up by the roots. Granted, the drought had killed them, but even brown, they’d been a reminder of the yard in its glory, back in the days when water was plentiful. The two Adirondack chairs had been stacked to one side. The remaining topsoil was so dry and powdery, a passing breeze would lift it in a cloud and bear it away.
Next door, I spotted Edna on the back porch with a paint scraper in hand, chipping off flakes of white paint with great industry. This was largely for show. If she had any real intention of repainting the porch rails, she’d enlist Henry’s services and then stick him with the chore.
Henry emerged from his kitchen, the picture of good cheer. The cat took advantage of the open door to slip through. Henry was saying, “There you are! I didn’t expect to see you back today.”
“I got the job done and couldn’t think of a reason to stay over,” I said. “I brought you a present.” I handed him the brown paper bag of asparagus.
He opened it and peeked in. “Wonderful. Nothing better than the first young spears. I’ll check my recipes and come up with something tasty.”
I watched Ed pick his way across the mulch bed, shaking first one paw and then another as though he were walking in snow. When he reached the porch outside my door, he had to stop and undergo a thorough cleaning, licking himself from head to toe.
I couldn’t keep my eyes off the devastation Henry had visited on his property. “This is depressing.”
Henry seemed surprised. “You think?” Even when he looked around, seeing the yard as I did, his reaction was mild. “It’s a work in progress, of course, but it’s coming along.”
“Did the book say you should rip out everything, or was this the plumber’s idea?”
“It was one of his suggestions. I might have carried it a little too far, but it should solve the problem. This concept is called xeriscape—mulch, drought-tolerant plants, and efficient irrigation.”
“Won’t it take years?”
“I like working with a blank canvas. It stimulates the imagination.”
“How can you bear it? You’ve always loved your garden.”
“I’ll have one again. For the time being, there are higher principles at work.”
His tone was a teeny tiny bit self-congratulatory and I felt a whisper of irritation.
“How come nobody else is doing this?” I asked.
“Excellent question and one I’ve asked myself. I’m hoping others will follow suit.”
“I hate pointing this out, but right now there’s no water rationing in place.”
It might finally have occurred to him that I was annoyed.
“You’re forgetting the twenty percent cut-back,” he said.
“But that’s voluntary.”
“I feel we should take steps to conserve since our usage is going up.”
“How could it be going up when I was in Burning Oaks all day and you haven’t watered in a week?”
“Sadly, it hasn’t helped.”
“Maybe you have a leak. Have you thought about that?”
He blinked. “I hadn’t. I’ll have Mr. McClaskey come out and take another look.”
I said, “Meanwhile, your yard looks like a construction zone. Summer comes, we can sit out here in our hard hats and admire the dust.”
His brows went up. “Your trip must have been a disappointment. You seem out of sorts.”
I had to close my eyes and get a grip on myself. I never lose my temper with him. “Sorry. I don’t mean to fuss at you. The trip was fine. I’m just tired from the drive.”
“If you feel like joining me for supper, I can put together something simple.”
“I’ll take a rain check. I’m too grumpy to be good company. I’ll unpack and shower and then get in my comfies, which is bound to help.”
I could see my use of the word “shower” had set off a mental alarm. Henry was probably calculating the water I’d already used this week. “I’ll keep it short, I swear.”
“One would hope.”
I unlocked my door and let myself in. Ed was there like a shot, sliding through the open door. As usual, he strolled around my studio and made himself at home. He hopped up on the kitchen counter and settled like a bolster pillow, with his front feet tucked under him. I wasn’t sure if Henry realized where he was, so I opened the door again and stuck my head out. “Ed’s in here if you’re looking for him.”
“Thanks. Bring him over if he turns into a pest.”
“Will do.”
I closed and locked the door. I set my overnight case at the bottom of the spiral stairs and turned on the living room lamps. I noticed the message light blinking on my answering machine. I crossed to the desk and pressed Play.
“Kinsey. Spencer Nash here. I’m back in town and curious what you learned about Hallie Bettancourt. When you have a minute, would you give me a call? It’s Saturday, one o’clock, and I should be here until four. If you miss me, leave a message and I’ll call you back first chance I get.”
He recited his number and I made a note of it. I didn’t want to call him or anybody else. I needed time to myself.
I trotted up the spiral stairs and set my overnight case on the bed. Behind me, Ed jumped down from the kitchen counter and followed. He had a look around, sniffed at the baseboards in hopes of mice, and finally sprawled on my bed, watching with interest while I unloaded my overnight bag, leaving the permanently packed items where they were. That done, I stripped off my clothes and shoved them in the hamper.
I had a two-minute shower and a quick shampoo. Once I pulled on my oversize sleeping T-shirt and sweats, I felt better. I holed up for the evening, tucked in bed, where I finished my book with a boy-cat stretched out along my hip. I thought he’d ask to go out, but he seemed happy where he was. Nothing wrong with being single when you can do as you please without objection or complaint. The presence of the fu
r ball was icing on the cake.
• • •
It wasn’t until Monday morning that I caught up with Nash—or, to be more accurate, when he caught up with me. We’d played phone tag all day Sunday and I’d finally decided not to sweat it. My report wasn’t pressing, and he was entitled to his weekend without business intruding. I’d try another call when I reached the office.
Meanwhile, I woke at the usual hour, pulled on my running duds, did a perfunctory stretch, and headed the two blocks to the bike path that paralleled the beach. I could jog in my sleep if it came right down to it. There was a time when I wore headphones plugged into an AM/FM radio and spent most of the run trying to find a station I liked. The music was seldom to my taste and the news programs depressed me. My fallback position was a drive-time talk show, which usually consisted of two guys blabbing about nothing in particular, their “hilarious” banter more amusing to them than it was to anyone else. Eventually, I’d abandoned the idea of listening to anything. Silence allowed me time for reflection and helped to quiet the chatter in my head.
It was now March 20 and the morning skies were clear. Despite the unrelenting sunshine, there was still a chill in the air and I was happy to be wearing my red fleece sweatpants and hoodie, which always felt good when I was starting out. By the middle of the run, I’d be stripped down to my T-shirt, my hoodie off and tied around my waist by the sleeves like someone hugging me from behind. By the time the run was over and I’d slowed to a walk, my long pants would feel like damp towels and I’d be eager to peel them off.
I was nearing the turnaround point a mile and a half down the beach when I found my attention focused on a fellow jogging toward me at a good clip. He was in loose shorts and a mismatched tank top. Like me, he had a long-sleeved shirt tied around his waist. While he was a good six feet tall, he didn’t show much in the way of upper-body development. His legs were sturdy and his feet were huge. There was nothing about him that signaled danger, but I made a quick assessment of the situation. It was, after all, barely light, and there was no one else in the area except for a homeless person zipped into a sleeping bag at the base of a palm tree. I avoided eye contact as the guy ran past.